


Get Me Away From Myself

by Usedtobehmc



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bondage, Dom/sub, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to past trauma, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 22:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3995746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Usedtobehmc/pseuds/Usedtobehmc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spy needs help.  Sniper provides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Me Away From Myself

It's the nightmares again.

Sniper makes it his business to be observant and he knows that Spy is having his nightmares again. He can sense the signs of fatigue even though the Frenchman hides himself behind a pristine suit and a mask. Spy has sometimes referred to this in the past as "having trouble." Spy makes it his business to keep things vague.

They way Spy's arm hangs just a little lower than usual while wielding his trusty knife. The way his eyes have dark circles beneath them. The way for the past week Spy hasn't been as talkative or affectionate. Not that they're the type for long walks under the moonlight or anything, but they did have a certain rhythm in their relationship when things were going well. And this wasn't it. It all made it terribly obvious that Spy wasn't sleeping.

And now it's Saturday: they usually have a standing "date" on Saturdays, and Sniper doesn't know exactly what will greet him as he approaches Spy's door. He lets himself into Spy's quarters with the spare key only to find that the man isn't there. Another red flag: Spy is not one to break his rituals. Sniper builds a fire, makes sure it's a good one that will last, and sets about making himself at home. He leaves his boots by the door with his weapons, hat, vest and belt.

He settles into a high-backed chair with a glass of brandy and waits.

**

Spy unlocks the door and enters the room with a certain lack of the grace that Sniper has come to directly associate with him. When he sees Sniper, he stops and checks the grandfather clock in the corner. Then he checks his watch and sighs. "I'm late."

Sniper shrugs and gets up to approach him. He holds out the glass of brandy and lets Spy take it from his hands and finish it. "A good selection." He sets the glass down without looking for a coaster.

"I know what you like. You look tired," he helps Spy out of his suit jacket and hangs it on the coatrack. Spy doesn't notice or doesn't say anything: the jacket is supposed to go on a hanger.

"I am operating on very little sleep. This week has been… troublesome." The word was obviously chosen purposefully and he avoids eye-contact.

Sniper eases up behind him and lets his hands settle on Spy's shoulders. He digs his fingers into the muscles there in the most precise way possible. Spy shivers and his shoulders droop an infinitesimal degree.

"What do you need?" Sniper keeps his voice low and quiet, working Spy's neck muscles gently until they begin to give.

When Spy speaks, his voice sounds broken and devastated. "Take me out of my head. I can't stand it. I must be out of my head, just for a little while." His voice cracks, and the trauma of his past shines through the break, pulling at his edges with piercing fingers.

His heart breaks to see Spy like this; deprived of sleep and caught in a never-ending playback of memories from over two decades ago.

"Get the box," he says, and places a kiss on the back of Spy's neck.

Spy drops to his knees and crawls to a large, mahogany chest in the corner. Lifting the large lid, he fishes out a box from it's depths and carries it back to Sniper, walking on his knees. He keeps his eyes down.

"Get my shirt off, love."

"Oui, monsieur." Spy stands and unbuttons Sniper's work shirt as quickly as he can, sliding it from Sniper's broad shoulders and holding onto it.

"Just drop that anywhere, love. On your knees."

"Oui, monsieur." And he's back on the floor.

Sniper turns towards the box and opens it, rummaging around until he finds what he needs. He removes a few items and sets them aside, then moves around Spy's room for a few more things, arranging the furniture to his liking while Spy waits, eyes still focused on the ground.

"Mask off."

Spy removes his mask in one smooth motion and throws it behind him. Sniper inwardly sighs at how much more obvious the fatigue is now.

He rattles off pieces of clothing, each of which Spy removes quickly one-by-one until he kneels completely nude on the floor. He has Spy stand up and Sniper runs his hands all over every exposed inch of flesh. Sometimes he leaves kisses in the wake of his hands, breathing deep and just appreciating what he has here before him. He reaches down and gives a few gentle strokes to the growing hardness between Spy's legs, squeezing and petting and listening to the ever-so-subtle changes in his breathing. Soon Spy is fully erect, and Sniper feels the soft quake in his legs.

"Same safe-word, love."

"Oui, monsieur," Spy responds, breathless. He doesn't look up. He remembers.

"On all fours."

Once Spy is on his hands and knees, Sniper sets to work. The collar is first, it's heavy and thick; made of a firm leather with a sturdy steel ring on the front and back. He clips it at Spy's nape and tests that it's not too tight by working a finger between it and Spy's skin. Next, he fastens cuffs onto each of Spy's wrists and on each leg just above the knee. The lengths of chain between them fix it so that crawling must be done slowly and carefully. There's a chain connecting his wrists, a chain connecting his thighs, and a chain that connects the previous two to each other. If Spy crawls too fast or carelessly, the chains will go taut and he will go sprawling to the ground. Sniper then fits the blinders around Spy's head; not unlike what they use for skittish horses, the blinders restrict Spy's vision to that which is directly in front of him.

Sniper pets Spy's back with a firm hand, letting the warmth from his palms seep into the back muscles. He sits, cross-legged behind Spy and sets to work with a bottle of lubricant. He warms some in his hands and lets the slippery fluid coat his fingers.

He starts slow; he wants Spy to feel this, but he absolutely does not want it to hurt. Tonight is not about that kind of pain. He starts with one finger, slowly teasing open Spy's hole with care. He works his way up to two fingers, then three. He observes that Spy has broken out in a sweat that dots his back with small beads of perspiration. Spy's cock hangs under him, rigid and straining. A bead of pre-come has fallen from the tip to the floor, still linked by a thin string. Sniper shushes Spy's trembling as he reaches for the rubber plug; not too big, but big enough to feel with every movement. He pushes it in slowly, petting Spy's back when he gasps at the intrusion. Soon, it's far enough in that Spy's ass closes around the widest part, clenching around the thin stem just before the flared base.

Sniper kisses the small of Spy's back. "Beautiful, love."

"Ou-- Oui, monsieur." Spy huffs.

"Follow me," Sniper heads for one side of the room and takes a deck of cards off the mantle of the fireplace. Spy follows slowly, getting a feel for his restricted mobility. The plug in his ass presses deliciously against his insides with each shift of his hips. He crawls obediently to Sniper and touches his forehead to the tops of Sniper's bare feet.

"Watch," Sniper says and takes the deck of cards out of the box. He shuffles them once and lets them flutter to the ground in a mess. "I put a bucket over there," he points to the other side of the room and watches Spy spot it before he speaks again. "You're going to pick up every card, one by one and place it in that bucket. Use your mouth to carry them, no usin' your hands. When you pick one up, hold your head high until you put it in the bucket. On your way back you have to tell me which card you just put in the bucket. Can you remember all that, love?"

Spy's eyes fall shut and he takes a deep breath. "Oui, monsieur."

"Begin."

Spy lowers his head to the floorboards and selects one card. With it trapped between his teeth, he turns and begins the journey across the room to the bucket. Immediately, a sharp swat lands on his ass and Sniper is there. "Lift your head, love. Higher."

Spy points his chin up, straining and speaks through his teeth. "Oui, monsieur."

Crossing the room takes longer than he would have guessed. The chains linking his wrists to his thighs slow his speed, and he becomes even more cautious because he can't see in front of him with his head pointed up. Moving this slow makes him all of more aware of his hard cock hanging between his legs, angry and unsatisfied. The plug is perfectly sized and shaped to keep him hard and interested, and it would only fall out of he made a considerable effort to eject it. He wants to fall to the floor and hump the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. He wants to touch himself. But he can't. He has his orders.

Finally, he reaches the bucket and lets the card fall. He turns and begins back. "Two of clubs."

Sniper nods his approval and Spy feels a swell of pride in his chest.

The routine continues, card after card gets dropped into the bucket as Sniper diligently follows the progress, making small corrections to Spy's posture as it goes. After the twentieth card, Spy begins to feel the strain. His neck aches, his knees as well. His arms and shoulders are becoming stiff from the crawling, and his body yearns to stretch out, but his bindings make it impossible. And his cock, oh it's torture.

He stops for only a moment, to take a breath. Sniper is there in an instant and lands a sharp slap on his ass. It jostles the plug and Spy gasps from the exquisite pain when it hits his prostate. "Keep moving, no stopping. You're not done." He commands softly and snags one of the rings on Spy's collar to get him going again. Spy nods, and before he retrieves another card, he lands a soft, apologetic kiss on Sniper's foot. He selects a card and lifts his head up again, ignoring the ache forming between his shoulder blades.

It takes just about 60 minutes for Spy to put all 52 cards into the bucket and his whole body is burning and shaking before it's over.

Spy can't focus on anything besides his task and the complaining of his much-abused muscles. His head wobbles as his neck muscles flutter and threaten to give up. His knees burn from the crawling. His ass stings from his various corrections. And by now he has leaked so much pre-come that he's left a discernible trail of dots of moisture between Sniper and the bucket.

There is a rivulet of sweat down his back and it itches; he wants to fall to the ground to get some relief.

The last of the cards flutters into the bucket and the beginning of a sob starts and dies in Spy's throat as he calls out, "Queen of diamonds."

Sniper is at his side, all strength and comfort after his ordeal. The marksman undoes the chains linking Spy's arms and legs and guides him as he falls, rolling the exhausted man onto his back on the bearskin rug, just close enough to the fireplace that he is warmed by it and not burned.

Sniper pulls off the blinders and peppers Spy's face with congratulatory kisses, petting his chest and down his sides as Spy relishes in the feel of the soft fur rug against his skin and the relief in his tortured muscles.

"Good, so strong, perfect…" The compliments pour from Sniper as he arranges himself between Spy's legs and snakes his hand down to slowly work the plug out.

Spy arches his back as the plug leaves him, whimpering at the sudden emptiness. But it's short-lived and Sniper's hard, long cock is there in its stead, pushing into him in one smooth movement. It fills him in a way that the plug never could: the hard rubber couldn't compare with the warm flesh of his lover, his master.

Sniper takes a hold of Spy's cock and almost instantly, Spy comes. He's spent the last hour and a half absolutely rigid with need and the single touch was all he needed. He wails with pleasure as Sniper milks every last drop of semen out of him, coating Spy's chest and belly with the hot fluid, all the while thrusting into him with perfect rhythm.

He's wide-eyed with pleasure and can only lay limp-limbed and watch Sniper pound into him, hammering at that perfect spot inside.

"Knew you could do it," Sniper gasps out. "Knew you could. Perfect. So bloody perfect, love."

"Sniper," Spy whimpers, voice high and tired. " _Harder_."

Sniper pauses, sees the corners of Spy's mouth twitch upwards and he grins. He gathers Spy in his arms and pounds him into the carpet, slamming his hips against that perfect ass and wrenching a noise of pure pleasure out of him with every thrust. They stay locked together until Sniper can't take anymore and comes with a feral shout, emptying himself into Spy's body with three violent movements. Spy wraps himself around Sniper and clenches every muscle in his body, pulling the pleasure from him until there's nothing left.

 

****

 

A few rays of sunshine peek through the heavy, double-layered curtains, signaling dawn's arrival.

Sniper wakes first, flat on his back on the bearskin rug with a small throw pillow under his head. He glances down and is relieved to find that Spy is still there, sound asleep on his chest. The quilt that Sniper had thrown over them is also still there: oddly Spy has not kicked it off in sleep like usual.  The fireplace is cold, all that remains of the night's warmth is black ashes.  

"Shit…" he whispers when he sees that he forgot to remove Spy's collar last night. He gently unclasps it and slips it from Spy's neck, setting it gently aside.

Spy doesn't even shift; he's stuck in the deepest layer of sleep, where not even dreams can reach him.

 

  
t h e e n d

 

 

 

 

 


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